Hidden Depths
by Gryvon
Summary: Arthur/Eames. Eames follows Arthur home. Arthur lets him.


Arthur hesitates as he turns the key. Eames is polite enough not to comment, but he lingers in the hallway before following Arthur into his flat.

"Don't touch anything." It's a futile command, but he feels slightly better having said it. At least then, when Eames inevitably does touch something, Arthur has the moral high ground of 'I told you so' when he starts yelling.

Arthur's flat is spotless, the sort of military neat that stuck with him after his time in the armed forces. At this point it's ingrained, though he knows himself well enough to see the early signs of his neatness as far back as his early childhood. It's not quite OCD, more habit than necessity and he likes the habit too much to bother changing it.

"Nice place." He glances over at Eames but the forger's eyes are elsewhere, taking in the simple décor. "Classy. Simple. I like it."

He's not surprised at Eames's appreciation, but he does feel a bit of validation. Eames is the first person he's let in here, aside from Dom, and Eames's presence here is a statement, one that leaves Arthur nervous and twitching. He's reluctant to leave Eames alone but at the same time he feels an almost urgent need to pretend that everything's normal and ignore Eames. It's futile. He could never ignore Eames. He's the incandescent bulb to Arthur's fly and the only saving grace to their relationship is that he's yet to get burnt.

His jacket slides from his shoulders as he steps into the bedroom. His senses are on high alert, even as his body goes through the familiar motions of relaxation. The jacket is placed on a hanger. He'd left the door cracked, closed enough to give him privacy and open enough that he could still hear Eames moving around. So far Eames stays in the living room and there's enough hints of Arthur's personality in that one room to keep Eames busy for days.

Arthur hangs his tie, then folds his shirt and pants before dropping them in the laundry basket. His undershirt is similarly discarded before he pulls a simple black t-shirt over his head. The fabric is soft and smooth, and he can already picture the look of shock mixed with pleasure on Eames's face when he sees Arthur in it. He pulls a pair of old faded jeans out of the drawer. The fabric is aged but still in good repair. He doesn't wear them often enough for them to get worn out, only at home and he's not home often.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind him. His eyes go to Eames then down to the object in Eames's hands just as Eames looks up. He imagines their expressions are quite similar, a mixture of shock and surprise, though Arthur has exchanged the pleased smile on Eames's face for an embarrassed blush.

"I thought I said not to touch anything." His voice is steady even if he is not.

Eames's smile inches a fraction wider. "You didn't really mean that." He turns over the DVD case in his hand. "I was just admiring your collection."

Arthur swallows. He shouldn't be embarrassed, but he is. If it was anyone else... well, maybe not anyone, if it was Dom or one of the men from his unit he would have shrugged it off or made a joke. With Eames it feels much more personal, like part of himself is on display.

The DVD slips back into place on the shelf. "Cute trick." Eames waves to the recessed shelves, hidden behind another set of shelves that swung out from the wall next to the entertainment center. "The giveaway is that they sit too flush against the wall." Eames gives him a knowing grin. "It's too perfect, even for you. What's on the other side?" He points to an identical set of shelves on the opposite side of the entertainment center. They're black wood, matching the entertainment center, only three shelves high. The front shelves, the visible ones, held DVDs, movies and TV series that he means to watch but hasn't gotten around to yet.

"Books." He's not sure why he answers but Eames smiles wider.

"Are they all as intellectually stimulating as," he pauses, glances back at the hidden shelves, "'Pirate's Booty'?"

Arthur takes a deep, calming breath and stalks over to the entertainment center. The shelf swings closed without a sound, save for the quiet click as it latches shut. "I don't recall inviting you to come here and go through my things."

Eames is closer now, within arm's reach. Neither of them make any attempt to close the gap. "You brought me here, didn't you, darling? I had assumed that was an invitation."

His eyes narrow as his embarrassment fades slightly in the face of growing anger. "You followed me."

"You let me follow."

He's almost tempted to respond with a "touché" but he holds his tongue. Both he and Eames know he was fully aware that Eames was tailing him, and that he could have lost the tail or at least changed destinations. The meaning of Eames's presence here isn't lost on either of them.

Arthur crosses his arms across his chest and tries not to seem like he's at least somewhat at ease even if he really isn't.

"I am impressed, though." Eames takes another sweeping glance across the room. "I hadn't realized you had such... hidden depths." Eames isn't talking about the décor and Arthur fights another blush. Then Eames's eyes are raking down him with an entirely different kind of stare. "Did I mention that looks absolutely stunning on you, darling?"

He feels his lips starting to curl into a frown and the familiar pressure between his eyes as his forehead wrinkles. "It's a t-shirt and old jeans. Hardly Armani." Still, he feels a small bit of pleasure at Eames's reaction, even if he's loathe to admit it.

Eames's eyes hold his and Arthur's frown starts to slip. "As much as I do love your suits, darling, and I truly do, this is..." He steps closer, into Arthur's personal space and it takes every bit of Arthur's resolve not to back away, not to run scared from what he knows is happening. He hadn't planned this, hadn't really given much thought past the fact that he was letting Eames into his home to think of what might happen when Eames was there. Eames's hands settle on Arthur's sides and he figures he can be forgiven if he jumps, just a little, at the touch. The hands move down his sides, feeling the fabric of his shirt as it clings to his skin, and then settling on his waist. "This is personal."

His mouth opens to retort but the words never make it past his lips. Eames's mouth closes over his, swallowing down his words and pushing the rest away as his tongue slides into Arthur's mouth. The kiss is everything he's come to expect from Eames – smooth, relaxed, almost lazy in the way his mouth lingers over Arthur's, tongue exploring slowly, moving with care. His hands wrinkle the front of Eames's shirt and he feels a brief pang of guilt for that before Eames pulls them both down onto the couch. Somehow Eames managed to maneuver them so that Arthur's in his lap and he's really not sure if he wants to complain, though he feels like he should just on general principle.

They're far too old to be making out on the couch, but he finds it hard to pull away. Eames's mouth is warm and wet on his. He kisses like sin, but Arthur had expected nothing less. Eames's hands are everywhere, running along his spine, down his legs, across his chest. He moans when one hand slips between his thighs and rubs against the growing bulge in the front of his pants. A similar hardness presses against his thigh and Arthur takes a bit of smug pleasure in the way Eames's breath runs short every time Arthur shifts his legs.

"Are you sure you don't want to put something on?" Eames trails a line of kisses down Arthur's throat, then bites down, just above the collar of Arthur's shirt, cutting Arthur off with a strangled moan. That'll leave a mark, but thankfully not one that can't be covered by a high collar. "Sunsex Boulevard, perhaps?" Arthur gasped as Eames squeezed his crotch. "The Porne Ultimatum?"

He smacked hard Eames on the shoulder. Eames just laughed against Arthur's skin and fondled him unrepentantly. His hand drew away. For a brief second, Arthur thought he'd done something wrong but then Eames was pushing him down onto the couch, shifting them until he was above Arthur. Eames's hands pressed into the cushion on either side of Arthur's head.

"You like it when I tease you. I can tell."

He doesn't try to refute it. There are two ways this evening can go. One, he can roll Eames off of him, send his sprawling on the floor, and tell him to get out. Two, he can go with it, go with Eames, and get laid for the first time in far too long. Option one isn't happening so he reaches up and wraps his arms around Eames's shoulders.

"Shut up," he orders, then draws Eames down to seal off his lips. He can feel Eames smiling against his lips.

It's not that Arthur hasn't had plenty of opportunity to get laid. He has, by both genders, though his preference for one over the other is by now quite obvious to him and anyone close enough to him to notice. The issue is not with opportunity but with inclination, and he knows exactly why that is. As much as Eames rankles Arthur, he also excites him and it's been a long time since he's fancied anyone that isn't Eames, though that wasn't for lack of trying. Eames is like a bad habit, like his neatness. Arthur's used to him. He fits so very tidily into Arthur's life, even if he does tend to muck it up once he's there.

In a way, Arthur sees it as inevitable when he lifts his hips, just enough that Eames can push Arthur's jeans down, taking his underwear with it. Then there's a warm hand circling Arthur's cock and he can't think of anything but the way Eames's hand fits so perfectly around him. He gasps into Eames's shoulder, tightens his hands on the back of Eames's shirt. He's a disaster against pressed fabrics tonight, it seems. He doesn't think Eames minds. There's an awkward sort of shuffle between them as Eames uses his free hand to unbutton his own jeans. Arthur's about to offer his help when Eames frees himself.

This isn't the first time Arthur's had another man on top of him, but it feels like it when Eames slides his cock against Arthur's and takes them both in hand. Arthur's breath comes out heavy, like he's been running a marathon. Eames pulls back slightly to watch him and Arthur can tell how much he likes it, likes the way Arthur's mouth hangs open, the way his eyes are half-lidded.

"Darling" is all Eames says, the word reverent, and Arthur gasps and arches up into Eames's hand as he runs his thumb over the head of Arthur's cock.

There are no words after that, just gasps and moans, far too many from him and not enough from Eames though he can't complain too heavily about that when Eames has him writhing against the couch. He closes his eyes when the intensity of Eames's stare gets too much. Lips close on his throat, not biting, but the threat of teeth is enough to push Arthur over the edge. He comes into Eames's hand, not caring for the moment that he's getting come all over both their shirts.

Eames is still hard but his hand has stilled for the moment. Arthur resolves to do something about that very soon, just as soon as he can breathe again which is proving a difficult enough task at the moment. He blames Eames and knows that he's going to have a horrible time not staring at Eames's hands the next time they have a job together.

"I can't believe you alphabetized your porn collection," Eames says suddenly into the silence.

Arthur shoves him off. Eames hits the floor with a loud thunk and a mostly fake cry of pain. Arthur ignores him, pulls his pants up and holds them there with one hand while he stalks into the bedroom. For a minute, he thinks he made a mistake, but then he can hear Eames's laughter, getting closer as he follows Arthur into the bedroom. Arthur's pants fall to the floor and he doesn't fold them, too occupied to even think of it as Eames presses him down onto the bed.

He should know by now that Eames will always follow him.


End file.
